Murder at Teatime

by Stefanie Matteson

  The younger girl appeared in the doorway behind her mother, carrying a little boy who was chewing on a crayon. In his other hand, he was holding a drawing that had been scribbled in red crayon on a brown paper bag.

  “Yippee, you came,” Kim said, seeing Charlotte. Handing her brother over to her mother, she threw her arms around Charlotte’s waist and clung to her side. “I didn’t think you would. Honest, I didn’t.”

  “Kim Gilley, show your fetchin’ up,” scolded her mother.

  From inside came the yipping of a small dog. Tammy appeared at the door, carrying the huge radio in one hand and cradling a Chihuahua, which must have been the ferocious dog to which the sign referred, under her other arm.

  “You girls take the lady and gentleman out to your father,” ordered their mother.

  They found Wes sitting on a bench at the rear of a ramshackle bait shed, painting lobster buoys in stripes of red, white, and black. The already-painted buoys lay spread out around him, drying in the sun.

  “Papa, look who’s here,” said Kim excitedly, running ahead. “It’s Charlotte, the movie star I was tellin’ you about. And this is her friend, Tom.” She turned to face him. “Right?” she said, with a disarming smile.

  “Right,” said Tom, charmed.

  Wes continued painting. Charlotte noticed that the hand that gripped the paintbrush was scarred and calloused from the burn of the pot warps.

  Collecting a group of the lobster traps, Kim arranged them in a semicircle around her father, as if she were arranging a tea party for her dolls. After showing Charlotte and Tom to their seats, she took one of her own, while her sister sat down on the bench next to her father.

  Wes looked up. “Get,” he said to the girls.

  He was met with a chorus of whines. “We was the ones that asked Charlotte,” protested Kim. “She come to see us, too.”

  “Don’t make no damn’s odds who asked her,” he replied. “Now, go sandpaper the anchor,” he bellowed, raising his paintbrush threateningly and baring his teeth in an expression of mock ferocity.

  The girls retreated reluctantly to a grassy plot at the foot of the wharf to watch the proceedings from a permissible distance, sitting like the patrons of a movie theatre on a castoff automobile seat.

  After settling in on his makeshift seat, Tom inquired about the lobster catch. If he thought he was going to get a short reply, he was wrong. When it came to the state of the lobster industry, the taciturn toiler of the sea was apt to become as loquacious as a New York cabbie. No matter how good or bad the market, the lobsterman could be depended upon to find something to complain about, the perennial favorites being the size of the catch, the price of bait, and their exploitation by out-of-state interests. Like the farmer, the lobsterman wore his poverty like a badge of honor. Hearing Wes refer to his traps as “poverty boxes,” Charlotte was reminded of Tom’s story about Diogenes the Cynic, the Greek philosopher who, upon seeing the nobles of Athens in their finery, snorted, “Affectation,” and, upon seeing the poor in their rags a few minutes later, snorted, “More affectation.” She suspected Wes’s littered yard was as much an affectation as Chuck’s expensive automobile.

  Taking advantage of a pause in the conversation, Charlotte asked Wes what he thought of the meeting.

  “All right,” he said tersely.

  She waited.

  He looked up at her and smiled broadly. “I guess I really gave that rich bitch a rakin’ over.” Chortling to himself, he reached down to dip his brush into a can of paint.

  “I assume that the person you referred to in your speech, the person who was balling up the works, was Frank Thornhill,” she continued. “You didn’t like him much, did you?”

  He stopped painting and looked out over the water with the far-off look in his pale blue eyes that came from a lifetime of gazing out to sea. “Can’t say that I did,” he replied, leaning over the edge of the wharf to spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into the water.

  “Why’s that?”

  He nodded in the direction of the Gilley Road. “See them cement pillars over yonder? He put ’em up. To mark the boundary.”

  Charlotte turned to look at the cement pillars that flanked the road midway between the Saunders and Gilley properties. They were about six feet high and shaped like the Washington Monument. On the walk over she and Tom had wondered who had put them there and why.

  “The island was settled by my great-great-great-grand-father. He had two sons, and he divided the land between ’em. The line was sighted through a knothole in an apple tree. The tree is long gone, but the Gilleys have always held that the line followed that stone fence over yonder.”

  Charlotte and Tom turned to look at the stone fence, which intersected the road about fifty yards from the monuments in the direction of the Saunders’ place.

  “I owned all the land to this side of the fence—or thought I did—and the old man owned all the land to the other side. He bought the Ledge House property and the Saunders property from my cousin; it was all one piece back then. Anyways, I was out cuttin’ cordwood one day,” he continued, nodding toward the pillars, “and who comes drivin’ up but Howard Tracey. He serves me a summons—for cuttin’ wood on the old man’s land.”

  “The land you thought belonged to you,” said Tom.

  “Damn straight I thought it was my land. Still do. Well,” he went on, “the old man gets himself some big Herb of a lawyer, and we go to court about it. He dredges up some old maps to prove that the tree was fifty yards this side of the fence, though how anyone could know where that tree was beats me. I lose. Fifteen acres, including the most beautiful little stand of white pine you ever seen—it’s as quiet as a church in there.” He turned around to look at the pillars. “Some day I’m goin’ to get me some dynamite and blow ’em all to hell. I shoulda done it before the old geezer croaked.”

  Charlotte wondered if the pillars would have been next on the list of vandalized property. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

  “It weren’t me, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. What’s it to you, anyways?” he said, turning suspicious. “Why’re you snoopin’ around?”

  “Chief Tracey asked us to help him out with the investigation,” said Charlotte, “You’re under no obligation to talk with us if you don’t want to.”

  “I already talked to Howard and to that royal boy.”

  “Royal boy” was Maine parlance for a State policeman, Kitty had said. The State police wore hats modeled on those of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “I know,” said Charlotte. “But I’d appreciate it if you could go over it again for Mr. Plummer and me.”

  “Well,” he said. “I guess if Howard says it’s all right, it’s all right. It coulda been anybody. The old bastard weren’t very popular around here.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Oh, he was the hoity-toity type. He insisted that everybody call him doctor, like he was a medical man or something.”

  “Mr. Gilley, did you see anyone other than Mrs. Harris at Ledge House while you were waiting at the door?”

  “Only that fat joker, the book dealer. He was out back on the veranda. He was settin’ on a lounge chair just outside them French doors.”

  “Were you waiting at the door the entire time that Mrs. Harris was upstairs getting your change?”

  “No. I went out to look at my truck. Thought she might be leakin’ oil—my oil pressure was low.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Only a couple of minutes.”

  If Wes was telling the truth, it would explain why John hadn’t seen him when he came out of the house, she thought. “Did you see anyone else?”

  “Ayuh. I seen Chuckie comin’ out of the library. He’d been arguin’ with the old man. Goin’ at it tooth and nail by the sounds of it. Then, two, maybe three minutes later I seen that guy Lewis comin’ through the parlor.”

  “Through the parlor. You mean from the back of the house?”

  “Ayuh.�
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  “Where were you when you saw Chuck and Lewis?”

  “Kneeling down behind my truck.”

  “From that position, you were able to see into the house? To see Chuck coming out of the library, and John coming through the parlor?”

  “Ayuh.”

  Looking into his far-off blue eyes, Charlotte knew distant, dusky parlors would present no challenge to his eyesight. “Do you know what Chuck and Thornhill were arguing about?”

  “Nope. But I can guess.”

  “The development?”

  “Ayuh,” he replied, spitting another stream of tobacco juice over the side. “Chuckie wanted the old man to sell out to Chartwell. The people from Chartwell say they won’t go ahead with the development without the old man’s land. They say it wouldn’t be worth their while.”

  “But that’s old news,” said Charlotte. “They’ve been arguing about that for a long time. There must have been something else.”

  “There was,” said Wes, massaging the wad of tobacco under his lip with his tongue, like a cow chewing its cud.

  “Well?”

  “I suppose it don’t matter none if I tell you,” he said with a shrug. “Bound to come out eventually, anyways.” He paused. “Chuckie was pissed about the will. The old man said he’d rather leave his property to the State park than leave it to Marion and see it turned into a resort development.”

  Then the words, “You’d better leave it to me, you understand?” had referred to the will, thought Charlotte. “But Thornhill didn’t change his will—the house and grounds were left to Marion,” she said.

  “He didn’t have no chance, did he?”

  12

  After lunch, Charlotte and Tom headed out toward the Donahue cottage. Once past the wooded Ledge House property, the rutted track of Broadway opened onto barren headlands whose bold, bare granite cliffs rose steeply from the waters of the bay. From this site more than from any other, one had a sense of the island’s vulnerability to the elements. The sea breeze carried the chill of icebergs and arctic wastes, and the waves crashed against the stony flanks of the rocks with a fury that sent plumes of salt spray skyward. On the bay, the pale gray mass of a fog bank hovered threateningly over the outer islands, waiting for a northeasterly wind to push it inland. The minute world of pure perfection had been besmirched, and the island itself now seemed in some way menacing. Even the sky and air, which had once seemed to expand in widening circles of time and space, now carried a stony, heavy malevolence.

  Charlotte’s thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Tom, who had wandered over to the cliff’s edge. “Seals,” he said, pointing to the water below, where three shiny black heads bobbed in the heavy swells.

  They appeared to be playing a game of hide-and-seek in the waters of a channel created by a fissure in the granite bluffs. Their white-whiskered faces with their glistening, puppylike eyes disappeared underwater, only to pop up minutes later in another spot. On a rocky ledge at water level, the porcine form of a large seal—the mother, perhaps—kept a lazy watch, until, alarmed at their presence, she awkwardly wriggled her ungainly torso into the water, where she was transformed into a creature of grace and agility. On the rocks on the opposite side of the channel, a group of large, long-necked cormorants stood with their wings outstretched. Popular wisdom had it that the hapless water bird would sink unless it dried out its wings, for its dense feathers lacked the protective oils to keep them from becoming waterlogged.

  The scene was primeval in its beauty: just so must the Red Paint People have found the coast on their summer visits thousands of years ago. What would happen to the seals if the condos were built? Charlotte wondered. Would they stay to entertain the occupants with their play, or would they flee to the peace and quiet of a more remote island? She thought of the great auk—the giant, flightless, gooselike creature that had once been the most powerful water bird in North America. Hunted at first for its eggs, then for its flesh, and finally for its feathers, which were used for comforters and pillows, it was driven to take refuge on ever more remote islands. Finally it made its last stand on a remote island off the coast of Newfoundland before succumbing to extinction early in the nineteenth century.

  As they resumed walking their conversation turned back to the murder. It had been almost a week since Thornhill was poisoned, but they had no leads. All they had was a plethora of suspects, each with reason to want Thornhill dead, and each with means and opportunity. But if Charlotte and Tom were frustrated at their lack of progress, Tracey was even more so. His many hours of tedious labor hadn’t yielded a single clue.

  They had just rounded a bend in the road when Daria and John came into view at the cliff’s edge. After scrambling up the scree, they ascended the last few feet to the top. John was carrying a picnic basket, and Daria her sketch pad. Spotting Charlotte and Tom, they waited for them at the roadside.

  Daria was certainly taking care to portion out her company evenly, Charlotte thought. She had picnicked yesterday afternoon with John, dined last night with Tom at the Saunders, and was now out with John again. She supposed it would be Tom’s turn again tonight. At least Tom got the evening hours.

  Charlotte and Tom caught up with them a few minutes later. Daria explained that John had been taking photographs of waves for Stan and she had been sketching waves—her homework for Stan’s class.

  “John’s just been telling me about the wildflowers of New England,” she continued. “He says that every species we can see from here has a significant medical or nutritional use. I’m testing his knowledge,” she added with a dazzling smile. “He’s going to tell me of what use these wildflowers are.” She held out the bouquet she had gathered from the roadside.

  “Well?” said Charlotte, smiling at John and raising her signature eyebrow.

  “Anyone have hemorrhoids?” asked John with his lopsided smile. “An ointment made from fresh buttercup leaves is very effective.” He studied the bouquet. “How about bloating? Yarrow tea is a strong diuretic. Nervous? Try valerian, the nineteenth-century answer to Valium.”

  “And the lupine?” asked Charlotte, gazing across the road at the field blanketed with the tall white, pink, and lavender spikes of one of New England’s most beloved wild-flowers.

  “Aha! It used to be grown in Europe for fodder, but isn’t much anymore. Too many accidents. The mature seed of certain species is poisonous. A lot of common flowers are poisonous, but I don’t want to get into that for fear of incriminating myself. Speaking of which, how’s the investigation going?”

  They chatted for a moment more and then separated: Daria and John were headed back to Ledge House.

  “Stalking the healthful herb, or maybe the not-so-healthful herb,” said Tom as they resumed their walk. “So … what do you think of our plant hunter?”

  “A wonderful photographer,” replied Charlotte. That morning, John had dropped off the photos that he had shot in the parlor at Ledge House. The close-ups of her face against the background of the elegant Chinese screen were among the best that had been taken of her in recent years.

  “I’m surprised you let him take them,” replied Tom. “Didn’t you tell him that it might be hazardous to his health?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Why are you asking about him?” she teased. “Jealous?”

  “Maybe.”

  “An ideologue, but with a certain amount of charm,” she replied. “He didn’t like Thornhill, which he freely admits. But I don’t think that’s motive enough for murder, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Not even if you view it psychoanalytically? Thornhill could represent the father—you know: authority, power, privilege. By killing Thornhill he could be setting the world aright, patricide as a political act.”

  “Plummer, the wild man,” she said. In Mack Sennett days every Keystone Kops story conference had had its wild man, whose function it was to toss out outrageous ideas. The idea was to get the juices of creativity flowing. Tom’s being her wild man was their p
rivate joke. But maybe John could have killed Thornhill out of some twisted desire to get even with the system. “Why is it that I have this funny feeling you’ve been out turning over rocks again?” she asked. “What have you found out this time?”

  “Nothing terribly revealing,” Tom replied. “He has an up-and-coming reputation. He won the Asa Gray award when he was in graduate school—it’s a prestigious award for the best doctoral dissertation in botany—and he’s been awarded a couple of grants to study the herbals in European libraries. But things haven’t been going too well for him lately. A couple of research grant applications were recently turned down, and his latest book was just turned down by the outfit that published his earlier books. I guess times are tough in the ivory tower.”

  Charlotte remembered Thornhill’s allusion at the herb luncheon to the difficulty John was having in getting his work published.

  “Apparently there’s even some question whether he’ll be granted tenure,” Tom continued. “In some universities these days being granted tenure is the equivalent of being awarded the Nobel Prize, and Lewis’s politics aren’t the sort to earn him points with his older colleagues.”

  The Donahue house was now in sight, a shingled cottage with a glass-enclosed porch of the type found at seaside resorts up and down the East Coast. It perched forlornly on a grassy shelf near the end of a jagged, rocky point that sloped steeply down to the shoreline.

  “Here we are,” she said.

  A few minutes later they had come to the opening in the cedar hedge that set off the house’s apron of lawn from its rocky surroundings.

  The door was answered by a bewildered Marion, who seemed unaccustomed to having guests. She ushered them through the hallway into a living room that had the musty odor of vacation homes that are closed up for much of the year. Charlotte sat on a couch opposite her, while Tom sat at a desk on the other side of the room where he could unobtrusively take notes.